Shadow of Death: Champion Concept
by Devicorn
Summary: A little idea for a champion that's been floating around in my head for a while. Done in the style of the old League Judgments, as that was the only style that seemed fitting to put this into. Read on inside if you wish to know more about Narya, the Shadow of Death...


**Ok, so if anyone is here from reddit, having followed the link I posted on the LoL subreddit, then welcome! As I said there, this is just a little concept I've had hanging around in my head for a while of a champion for the actual game. I was originally just going to draw it, but when I tried to it didn't turn out very well, and I am as incompetent with anything digital art wise as a my dog is with reading a book. So, instead of going 'sod it, I'll just add it to the ever expanding pile of discarded ideas in my head' I decided to use my other reasonable talent and write about my champion concept.**

 **Yes, I know that Champion Judgments have been discontinued, but I don't really want to write an entire fanfic about this one concept XD I've made this a bit more story-like - as is my way with anything written - than the usual Judgments, but have tried to keep to the general theme. Also, I've written a bit of a background for my champion at the start, just to give you a bit more information on her. Enjoy, and please, let me know what you think of both my concept and my writing - I always love getting a review or two!**

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 **Background:**

Narya was once the only child of two loving parents, living with them in a small village on the island of Galrin, Ionia. She was an obedient child, if a little too curious and strong willed, and was as close to her parents as a bird was to the wind. For twenty two years she happily lived with them, trading with the other villagers, tending the crops and the animals, and exploring the world about her with carefree abandon. That, though, changed on the night she turned twenty three.

It was only when Death himself glided through one of the walls of her family's home as if it wasn't there, bringing with him the chill of the grave and his great, bone handled scythe that Narya learned the truth of her mother's survival of child birth. A contract with the Reaper – one that required from Narya five hundred years in his service from the day she turned twenty three –, and not a miracle of Ionian healing magic, had saved her mother.

Her father tried to banish Death from his home and from the world, thus breaking the contract and keeping both his wife and daughter alive and free, but it was no use. What the Reaper asks for, he always gets.

In an instant both his and his wife's souls were stripped from their bodies and sucked into the eerily wailing scythe before Narya's terrified gaze, and Death would have kept them there for all eternity whilst still taking their daughter into his service had she not turned and begged him to let them go, telling him she would do anything to set them free.

And so it was that Narya bound herself for a thousand years to Death, allowing her breath to be stolen and her life frozen as she became the Shadow of Death, learning from her new master the ways of reaping lives and taking on many of his soul taking duties. Her once bright hair grew dark as night, her green eyes filled with a blackness that gave back no light, and her carefree heart grew cold and hard, her wish to free her parents turning to something darker and far more sinister.

For four hundred years she plotted and schemed even as she reaped countless souls and gained her shadowy steed, Sheydawl, wondering just how she would take her Master's… 'life' and claim the true powers of Death for herself…but her plans were forced to the back of her mind when she came back to the pocket of space in the realm of Souls that she and Death shared, only to find everything broken in some way, her Master's scythe crying in terror in her arms, and Death himself nowhere to be seen.

Now, having spent a year searching in vain all over Valoran for Death and whoever had taken him, Narya, Sheydawl and what has now become her scythe have arrived at the Institute of War, a trail of soulless bodies and terrified survivors in their wake as she fulfils as many of Death's former duties as she can. The Summoners of the League are, from what Narya has gathered, the only ones who might be able to find her absent Master, and she will do anything she can, even further bind herself in another contract, to become more than just the Shadow of Death…

"Everyone seems to believe that Death is the ultimate cut off point, the one _true_ ending of everything. But they are wrong. I, you see, am only just the beginning." – Narya, former Shadow of Death, now acting as replacement Death.

 **Judgement**

Observation:

The great steed makes no sound as it almost glides down the long corridors of the Institute of War, deceptively light on its feet despite the muscles rippling under its shadow-black hide. It holds its head high and proud, moon bright eyes seeming to leave ghostly trails behind them as it moves without hesitation.

One could almost be forgiven for confusing the swaying tendrils of the horse's inky mane and tail with the edges of the cloak that covers its rider, so similar are they in how they fade, smoke-like, into the shadows that trail these two like faithful pets.

The pair does not stop as they find themselves heading down a passageway that leads only to a single stone door, instead seeming to pick up the pace. This was what they had come to see, a great step along the way to doing what they had set out to do a year ago. The peaked black hood shifts as the rider tilts her head up and takes in her surroundings in a second, though no features baring a pale chin and thin lips can be discerned from the shade that seems to emanate from the tall form.

The horse snorts softly as, with no discernible signal from either loosely hanging legs or pale hands, his rider calls him to a halt before the tall door. Ignoring the great carved panthers that stand in relief atop the arch of the door, the rider instead turns her attentions to the inscription above them. _The truest opponent lies within._

A faint smile appears upon the lips of the rider as she reads these words, a sentiment replicated by her shadowed steed, before languidly stretching out her right hand and flexing her fingers. The response is instant.

A soft, eerie sound, like the moans of the wind across a blood-stained battlefield, breaks through the oppressive silence, sending shivers of fear through the very air. A handle of pure white bone is now gripped in the riders hand, longer than the horse upon which she sits and almost glowing against the rich black of her cloak. She swings the great scythe upright as if it weighs nothing, listening to the soft swish of the silvery grey sand that fills the hourglass clasped at its base before adjusting her grip and tipping the weapon forwards.

As soon as the wickedly sharp tip of the scythe's blade, from which the unnerving wails continue to emanate, meets the door the stone shudders, slamming open in the blink of an eye. The great Institute of War shudders as one as the primordial magic that holds it in place recoils from the terrible _thing_ that has dared to touch it.

A crimson light flares within the sockets of the strange, animalistic skull from whose upper jaw the blade extends, and something dark flickers along the strange metal, revealing glimpses of warped faces that seem to grin in delight at the tremors they have sent through the ancient foundations.

Tilting her head and ignoring the sentient and twisted pleasure her weapon takes in tormenting the place she is in, the rider examines the darkness that stretches indefinitely ahead. One corner of her lips lift, and without a moment more of hesitation she urges her mount forwards, into the depths of the gloom.

Reflection:

Darkness is not something Narya and Sheydawl fear. In fact, they relish its inky touch as the door closes swiftly behind them, plunging them into a blackness pierced only by the ghostly glow of the scythe's handle and Sheydawl's eyes. Narya calls the shadows to her and her steed as they wait somewhere in the Reflection Chamber, caressing the darkness as a mother would a beloved child. Sheydawl snorts, his form blurring and becoming one with the shadows that float silently around him. The scythe held in Narya's hand hums softly, the moans of the blade quieting somewhat.

Narya stiffens suddenly as she senses something – no, some _one_ – entering into the chamber in the distance, but she is not given time to guess at who it is, because, all of a sudden, she is alone and on her own two feet. No steed from the realm of Souls paws at the floor beneath her, no scythe filled with the souls of the dead and damned is grasped comfortably in her hands, and no shadows swirl at her command no matter how hard she calls to them.

Narya feels something she has not felt in rather a long time: fear. It is small, but it is there. Once more, though, the cloaked woman has no time to analyse this strange occurrence, for in the distance she sees something. It flickers and dances enticingly, growing steadily bigger until it has banished all but the darkness that permanently whispers from Narya's very body.

Curiosity tugs Narya forwards, and before she knows it she is standing in a room she has not seen for nearly four hundred years. Two figures, one bent worriedly over the other as she screams in agony, are in one corner. Things are not quite right, though. The memory, or vision, is disjointed, almost as if someone is holding a pane of frosted glass over the whole thing, and Narya does not quite feel fully…immersed.

"Kella? Kella!" the male figure cries as, with one last cry of pain, the female stills. Narya can feel her soul beginning to peel away from the body, even as another lusty cry fills the tiny dwelling, one which draws the father's attention away from his dead wife. Only for a moment, though.

Picking up the new-born babe in heavily scarred arms, the man then falls to his knees beside the still warm body on the bed, weeping. Narya can see the woman's soul now, a pale green thing tinged with white, and out of instinct she reaches for her scythe to catch and examine it, to see if it is really that of the woman she thinks it is. Before she can, though, a chill settles over the house, one that she knows all too well. A shiver runs up her spine as, with barely a whisper even to her ears, Death glides invisibly through a wall and into the room. He is as she remembers him, cloaked in black with no face discernible under his deep hood, and she cannot help but bow her head to this figure, the only _true_ Reaper...for now.

Death watches the man for a moment before turning his attentions to the newly liberated soul, weighing the worth of its life in the blink of an eye. He reaches out, the same scythe that Narya now wields appearing in his cloak covered hand, but before he can take the soul into the confines of the weeping metal the cry of the man stops him.

"Whatever gods are out there, be they those worshipped by Noxus, Demacia or Ionia, or be they Death himself: do not take my wife from me! I will do anything to have her back! Anything!"

Narya's curiosity grows, but before she can see what her master does the vision jerks and splits, before converging once more.

"It is agreed then?" the soft hiss of her master's voice comes as he stands, now visible, over the quivering man who cradles the quietly crying babe in his arms.

"Y-y-yes, it i-is," the man whispers, voice trembling with terror. Narya cannot see beneath Death's hood, but she knows that he will be smiling.

"Good….your wife may have her soul, and her life, back, and you may live happily…" he says in a soft voice, uncurling a hand and, with a fluid motion, sending the woman's soul back into her body. She sits up, gasping, and the man rushes to her side.

"But remember…" Death hisses as he fades back into the realm of Souls, "when your daughter turns twenty three, she will be mine for five hundred years."

The scene jerks and splits again around Narya, and when it reforms it is even more disjointed than before, but still clear enough for the cloaked woman to see and hear all that goes on. Narya smiles as she hears the voices of her parents, confirming her suspicions of earlier. Her smile falters, though, as she also notices the terse, worried tone of her father's voice as he snaps angrily whenever a question is asked of him. She remembers all too well what happens next, but cannot tear her eyes away as her past self and her mother continue to celebrate her birthday, unaware of what is about to transpire. The scene begins to shudder again, jerking this way and that and only showing glimpses and snippets of sound of what occurs next. A shadowy cold as Death enters into the formerly warm home and demands his payment for letting Kella live those twenty three years ago. Her father, pulling a wide eyed Narya and Kella behind him, brandishing a wicked silver dagger at the cloaked figure. A laugh, cold and humourless as the grave. Screams of terror as her father and mother's souls are then pulled from their bodies and into Death's scythe, their bodies crumpling to the-

Narya wrenches her gaze away, cracking the image and sending it spinning forwards through the hundreds of years of life she had experienced after that pivotal moment. She did not want to be reminded of her father's stupid bravery, nor the pact she had rashly made with the Reaper in order to buy all their freedoms back. She had visited that memory far too often.

The scene around her continued to flicker through the life that had been extended well beyond its natural length by her scythe wielding master, through the thousands of hours he had spent guiding her, teaching her with a harsh and emotionless hand in the ways of reaping souls, and through the time in which she had nursed her hatred, her _loathing_ , for the being that had stolen her parents, life and even the very breath from her body from her for a thousand years – time in which her shrivelled heart had deviated from her original decision to serve Death for a thousand years and free her parents and herself. It seemed to continue on forever, whirling past Narya like the storm of souls that always hung over a battlefield, until finally it stopped. Again, though, everything was blurred and cracked, and shaking almost with the effort of holding even remotely together. But Narya did not need to see everything clearly to know what, or when, this memory was.

She watched as her year younger self appeared out of thin air the pocket of space in the realm of Souls that she and Death occupied. It was lavishly decorated, with a maze of rooms that could easily confuse the unwary, and had a faint black tinge to everything. It wasn't home, per se, but it was all she had known for nearly five hundred years. Her memory self went to call out to her Master as she always did after a day spent away from the grandiose place, but stopped. Something was wrong. Taking a closer look at everything, her past self was instantly on alert. Everything was out of place – curtains were torn, stairs were cracked, and the shadows that usually swirled about the floors were nowhere to be found. Strangest and most disturbing of all, though, was what appeared with a terrible cry in front of Narya after a few more moments of worried observation of the room. With a flash of darkness, Death's scythe ripped back through into the pocket of space from where it had stayed hidden, the blade sobbing with…terror?

Narya watched as her past self reached out to comfort the weeping weapon, hearing what it had to say to her even as she cradled the great scythe close to her cloaked chest, and saw the moment several pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. There was only one reason Death's personal weapon would come to her without her calling it, crying with fright.

The memory ripped around her again, the effort of holding together becoming too much for it, but this time, it did not reform. This time, Narya was returned to the present, the shadowy steed beneath her letting out a rumble of relief as she placed a hand against his great neck, and the scythe in her hand humming dissonantly and flooding her with a cold that had become familiar and welcome over the past year.

Movement caught their attention, the rustle of long robes brushing against the marble floor, the gasp of breath from someone weary of body and mind. Narya's smile returned as she, calling all the of the darkness the Reflection Chamber contained into her cloak, revealed two figures standing before her, one panting for breath as he leant with little strength against the other. The one who was leaning against the other was paler even than Narya, eyes closed as he heaved in one laboured breath after another and shivered uncontrollably, and the other, though they stood tall and proud, did not look much better.

"…Why do you wish to enter the League, Narya?" a weary female voice questioned from the cowl of the upright Summoner, and if she was taken aback by the fact that she and her companion were no longer shrouded in the darkness they had created, she did not show it.

"To ask for your help in tracing my Master and returning him to his rightful place as Reaper," Narya replied confidently, her voice filled with ghostly echoes that began and ended well before and after the real thing sounded.

"Why do you wish to enter the League?" the Summoner questioned again, suppressing a shudder at the sound of the cloaked woman's voice. Narya scowled beneath her hood, her grip around the bone handled scythe in her hand tightening. Sheydawl pawed beneath her, sensing her irritation.

"…So that I may find where my Master has gone, and get him to release the trapped Souls of my parents from his scythe," the echo filled voice said after a moment, confidence now gone from her grave cold tones as the darkness the room had once held billowed around her like a living thing, snapping angrily towards the Summoners as Narya raised the weapon in her hand. Two faces appeared within the metal of the blade, expressions horribly stretched into expressions of absolute agony as their voices groaned from the blade and filled the Reflection Chamber with ear splitting shrieks of torment.

For a moment, it seemed as though Narya would be let through, that her words were enough to convince the terrified pair before her to move from the path of her infernal steed. But even the Shadow of Death had to bow to the wishes of the League.

"Why do you wish to enter the League," the woman once more questioned, her voice diminishing to a whisper as she felt the gaze beneath the hood of shadows fix upon her.

"…So that I may find where Death has gone, rip the life from him as he did my parents, steal his powers and replace him as the only true Reaper of all the worlds," Narya eventually hissed, voice low and dangerous with intent. The man leaning against the woman whimpered, huddling deeply into his blue cloak as a babe in the deepest cold of the tundra would.

"How…how does it feel, exposing your mind?"

At this question, Narya relaxed, a soft laugh emanated from her. Slowly it grew, and with it the darkness seething within her cloak expanded outwards, creeping out into the air with frightening sentience.

Deeper and darker did Narya's laugh grow, full of nothing but malicious amusement, and with it so did the darkness, seeping into every crack, every gust of air and swirl of dust and wrapping around the two Summoners like the most unwelcome of blankets. And still the laughter continued, the eye of the scythe's skull flaring crimson with cruel delight at the petty creatures who thought to control everything in the world through their 'Fields of Justice.'

Only when the laughter so terrifyingly deep that it shook the entire room and threatened to split the ear drums of the Summoners, and the darkness had become so thick it could almost be tasted, did all sound cease. A silence, far more complete and unnerving than any that had filled the Reflection Chamber before, reigned king, and it was all the slumping Summoner could do not to curl to the ground in terror of what was to come.

And then, when the two Summoners thought that they could take it no longer, the darkness was gone. Daylight desperately flooded the Chamber, trying to reassert its dominance, and revealed that the blue robed figures were now completely alone.

As the still upright woman glanced around in fearful confusion, and as the man attempted to regain some of the dignity that had been stolen from him as he'd attempted to flick through Narya's memories and stay sane, a voice filled with hundreds of other echoes slithered up to their ears from somewhere now far within the depths of the League, speaking words that sent a shiver up both of their spines.

"Oh Summoners, if I had _truly_ exposed my mind to you, your souls would _long_ ago have fled into my arms."


End file.
